Winter, and not quite discontent

I’ve lived up north for most of my life, barring the first 8 odd years. Yet, my cold resistance barrier remains pitifully low and seems to dwindle with every passing winter.
Delhi isn’t the kindest of cities, weather wise. Though most people loathe the summers, I find them to be fairly survivable. It’s the winter that truly gets under my skin. The winter is when I start to complain (even if only to myself).

This horrid season does have some redeeming features though. And there are some choicest few things that are best if not better enjoyed during the winter. I thought I’d put together some kind words for winter. The past few days have allowed me to indulge in the few pleasures it affords.

Coffee

At first d-school was unsurvivable: I loved that I was there, just hated most if not all people who were there with me, I loved the course but hated the way it was taught. I seemed to have a whole lot more time on my hands than most of my classmates and just had nothing to do with it. It killed me. Because I hate being unhappy and the only thing I hate more is being unable to bring myself out of unhappiness. And I was drowning.

It was then that I hatched my famous “conspiracy against d-school”. That I would survive it with a smile even if I died in the process. And the effort damn near killed me too.

The first and most reliable weapon in this crusade was the coffee. I’d force myself into the canteen’s jam packed interior and then further into its deep dark recesses to where it’s source lay. I fell deeply in love with the man who served the coffee, always (and I mean always) with a kind word to say and a smile. It became my “thing”. I’d look forward to it from the moment I woke up and every minute of lectures that I plodded through took me one minute closer to it.

But it was the winter that made the experience truly blissful. Somewhere in December, arguably the best month in these parts. I’d sit on the ledge with my cup of coffee (and never ever without a spoon) stir and stare… stir and stare…stir some more and stare some more. Observe social formations in d-school, people arguing animatedly, flirting coquettishly, talking about great and significant things with great and significant gesticulations, boys engaged in bird-watching, other people having coffee.

Suddenly I began to belong. And for the few moments the coffee took to finish, everything even remotely unpleasant ceased to exist.

People who’ve observed me in this state often tell me that I looked so detached, almost as if I’d attained nirvana. They’ll never know how close to the truth they are.

*

(warning: the following text contains uncharacteristically corny content. I suppose it’s a question of taste, but given the choice I’d skip it. Either that or read it and criticise it mercilessly. Proceed at your own risk, or mine)

I finally found a use for my great big balcony this Saturday. I picked up a book, aimed my chair toward the sun and read.

I was warm and snug, in nothing but a t-shirt and thin pyjamas… no socks. Twiddling my fingers and toes and soaking in the glorious sun. To be fair I was so caught up in how perfect that moment was that the poor book was purely incidental to the situation. I couldn’t for the life of me concentrate on its contents.

I’d keep tuning in and out, preferring my reveries to the story as it unfolded. Not that I didn’t like the book. I thought it was lovely, beautifully written. The protagonist sounded like an interesting person, someone I’d like to meet and have a conversation with, but not quite like to know. Someone I could see myself falling in love with and never forgiving myself for.

But poor Merseult lost out in the end. My day dreams had people I know or would like to know, people I’ve met, seen. People with faces I’d recognise and voices I’d like to hear. People I love, few whom I momentarily I hate and some that I’m fairly indifferent about.

…despite being sidelined, the moment was still mostly about the book.

(ok I know that sounds contradictory and stupid, but its sort of hard to explain).

Somewhere in the middle of all this I couldn’t help but think: This is the life we all aspire to lead. Curl up in the sun and just read a book. Not because it will earn you an extra mark or get you a better job. Not because it contains valuable lessons to be learnt. Not even because you’ll remember it at a later point in time and reflect on how it altered your life. But simply because…

Except that it is impossible to sustain without engaging oneself in the trappings of real life. Studying, working, making money… Until these means to the end become ends in themselves.

And then I started to think of these real live things and grown up worries and concerns.

I didn’t quite enjoy that bit… and I hate that I can’t blame it on the winter either.

*

Hot showers: there is that split second when boiling hot water touches skin. I feel like I’m beginning to thaw. And soon everything around me is enveloped in a cloud of steam.

But I won’t go on about this one. First, because the steam never takes to too log to cling back on to the walls and trickle down to the wet cold floor making it wetter and colder. Second, because no matter how pleasurable the experience there is the altogether abhorrent prospect of having to return out into the cold.

Third, and most important, is that I’ve managed to bore myself and haven’t come an inch closer to disliking the winter any less than I had started out.

I can’t imagine why anyone would read this thing diligently. Usually, that thought doesn’t stop me, I can go on for ages with or without an audience. But this time even I can’t see the point of reading this and that’s never a good sign.

Must be the winter… froze my poor little brain and every last shred of creativity in it.

Bleh…